


Timelines

by spicedrobot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Genji Shimada, Bottom Tekhartha Zenyatta, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Dry Orgasm, Facials, Group Sex, Hardcore, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Moresomes, Mutual Pining, Nomad Genji Shimada, Robot Sex, Sentai Genji Shimada, Sixsome, Sloppy Seconds, Time Shenanigans, Top Genji Shimada, Valve Plugs (Transformers), Voyeurism, Wet & Messy, Young Genji Shimada, robot dick, very slight hinting at other pairings but like not a lot, wireplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23482708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: They all react differently in turn: faint interest, vague disgust, ambivalence. Only one of his selves had stopped Genji’s eye, turned a knife in his gut that he had been carefully ignoring for months.Or: a fic in which alternate timeline Genji cause present time Genji lots of grief. (And they all fuck Zenyatta.)
Relationships: Genji Shimada/Tekhartha Zenyatta
Comments: 7
Kudos: 165





	Timelines

**Author's Note:**

> (Don't write sixsomes. It's hell. LMAO)

The mission had not gone to plan.

Sojourn and Ana had chewed him out afterwards (too rash, you could’ve died), but they’d been remote, comm device hacked and useless in his ear. They hadn’t seen Lena yanked into the air, heard the splintering yell of a massive, wild-eyed Talon commander. Accelerator crackling, body plummeting, a short-lived scream that he never wanted to hear again.

Genji had moved.

The moment he had caught her, engulfed in blue, split into a million pieces and reformed...he had tried to struggle, to scream, to empty his guts, but he didn’t have a stomach, a mouth, a body. It hadn’t been how Lena described the slipstream; it was wrong, raw-edged and terrifying, seconds that tore through eternity.

They had reappeared, shaken but unscathed, into the blackened remains of the battlefield.

But they weren’t the only ones.

* * *

Genji hasn’t understood a single word spoken in the past several minutes. His eyes stay trained on the screen, studying the figures through the faintly grainy picture of the observation room. Like looking into a mirror, but not, like seeing his past, but not. “Selves” were how Winston described them: alternate realities, timelines, endless possibilities. Technically, Genji hadn’t been any of them, but the familiarity burrows somewhere deep, remembering how he had styled the same spring green hair, had constantly checked that his face was concealed beneath a tightly wrapped turban. The darkest of them stands stock still, pointedly ignoring everyone else. To witness them now, with the wealth of years between them, experiences, allies, friends...Genji resists the urge to rub his neck. He really had changed.

“This type of thing hasn’t happened before, but Athena detected multiple space-time disturbances. These other selves have left tears...er, that’s the easiest way to describe them, where they entered our world. We think they may snap back into their own timelines...with...er, time.”

“So what do we do with them until then?” Lena asks.

“Observe them. Keep them at the watchpoint, if we can.”

“That might be harder than you think…” Genji says, voice trailing off as another figure enters the observation room.

They all react differently in turn: faint interest, vague disgust, ambivalence. Only one of his selves had stopped Genji’s eye, turned a knife in his gut that he had been carefully ignoring for months.

One of them looks like he came straight from his favorite childhood show: a huge, v-shaped maedate, a scarf that would billow behind him when he struck a pose. It’s a lot to process, seeing such a ridiculous, idyllic version of himself, moving as he moves, holding himself as Genji holds himself but somehow taller, straighter. He alone approaches Zenyatta, immediately draws his master’s hands into his own. Zenyatta tips his head, lights alternating. He’s laughing.

“See? It won’t be that bad. They’re making friends already!” Lena chirps, leaning over Genji’s shoulder to get a better look at the feed. “And I know how to handle your dark, broody self, don’t you worry.”

She squeezes his shoulder gently. “It’ll only be for a little bit.”

“I hope you are right,” Genji sighs and squeezes her hand, forcing himself to meet her gaze.

* * *

Genji’s not sure he’ll ever get used to seeing them around the watchpoint. 

He isn’t trying to avoid his other selves. Not really. But they feel wrong, somehow, like seeing something he shouldn’t be allowed to see. Genji’s ashamed at his reluctance:  _ they  _ were the ones torn from their worlds, the ones suffering the most. 

Only that’s not quite true.

They slip into the flow of watchpoint operations within the first few weeks. The reformed Overwatch is strapped for bodies and resources, and, like it or not, his other selves are the best recruits they have. No mission work, but smaller tasks: food detail, perimeter checks, equipment maintenance. Like it or not, his teammates interact with them freely. And, to Genji’s quiet annoyance, they give them nicknames.

* * *

Sparrow

“Stop it, you’re bothering him.”

Sparrow’s face is still soft around the edges, skin unmarred, disturbingly exposed. His eyebrows shoot to his green hairline. This is the first time Genji has spoken to him directly. He is the one Genji sees most, always wandering aimlessly, flirting with anyone who’ll give him the time of day (and often with those who don’t). There’s a petulance to him that he’ll lose one day. Painfully. All at once.

“Why? You dating him or something?”

Genji’s frown deepens behind his mask.

“I can handle this pup,” Baptiste chuckles, waving his hand in the air.

His biotic launcher lies in meticulously placed pieces on the table in front of him. He picks up the barrel and begins to clean it.

“So, you  _ are  _ going to handle me?” Sparrow’s grin follows his low croon. 

“You’re a little young for me…” Baptiste nods towards Genji. “I really am fine. Promise.” He winks. “Thanks for lookin’ out for me.” 

Genji returns his nod, slow and silent. He stares at Sparrow for a moment more, until the younger squirms beneath unreadable LED and chrome. Then he turns to depart.

“What’s that about? You guys aren’t really dating, right?”

Genji and Baptiste sigh at the same time.

* * *

Nomad

Nomad is unobtrusive, at least. Not avoidant, like Kuro, but not quite  _ there _ . He sits outside the huge, defunct entrance to the watchpoint, staring out along the waves. It’s overcast today. The ocean churns, and a chill hangs heavy in the air.

Genji takes a seat next to him. They don’t say anything. A casual eye might mistake Nomad for meditating, but Genji knows better. He remembers the blur of the world around him, hours, days lost to the fog. The bouts of red tinged rage that were never far from the surface. 

“Ah, Genji,” Angela says when she rounds the corner. Her hair is down for once, eyes unlined but tired.

“Done with your shift?”

“Yes, with this last task complete.” She hands him a small oval device no larger than his palm. “Your filtration upgrade.”

“Ah, thank you. I had forgotten.” He dips his head.

She smiles.

“Well, I am used to taking care of you,” she turns to Nomad, something neutral, unreadable stealing over her features. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

Nomad watches her leave. Even though Genji cannot see his eyes, he knows the weight of it, that bitter, tamped down longing that would fade. Fade, and refocus years later.

* * *

Kuro

Athena’s reports indicate he spends most of his waking hours at the training range. Genji has seen him at it, working through the same routine that Genji could perform in his sleep, lightning quick and brutal. 

Kuro doesn’t speak to anyone, not really. It is a hard time to remember. What he does remember is Jesse, and Kuro trails him like a shadow.

“Jus’ wanted to know about my new arm,” Jesse mentions to Genji over a beer one night. “Even then, you were caring in that broody way of yours.” 

“Ha ha,” Genji replies dryly, nursing his own drink.

He receives a hard clap on his shoulder. “Don’t worry so much. We got you. All of you.”

* * *

Sentai

Sentai is not like the others. 

“Hey, Genji! You should watch this with us!” 

Lena beckons Genji over from the the loveseat she shares with Fareeha. Something that looks suspiciously like Kamen Rider Roku plays on the common area’s holo screen. Genji nearly agrees until he spots him. In the armchair obscured by his friends rests Sentai, unmasked, his scarred face nearly a reflection of his own. A little grayer, relaxed in a way Genji never saw himself. Perhaps if Zenyatta had a human face, it would share a similar tranquility. 

“Too bad Jesse’s not here. I bet he would love this.” 

Sentai is the oldest of them, older than Genji. Mature like he is, centered, but calm in a way that Genji has only just begun to claim for himself. His teammates notice it too, that open, easy confidence. Within the first week, he found Lucio hooking Sentai up to his DJ rig, armor lights alternating to the beat. Two days after: Sentai discussing the newest biotic technology with Brigitte over an arm wrestling match. He talks like Genji, moves his hands in the same way, laughs at the same things, but is somehow  _ more _ . Even the embarrassing catch phrases and pose striking only adds to his charm. 

They all watch him, Fareeha with a small frown, Lena with a lifted eyebrow.

What did he have to lose? Genji should be stronger than this, ready to grant kindness and understanding like his friends, like his master, had done.

But somehow—

“Sorry. I still have training to do.” He dips his head. “Next time?”

* * *

“They cause you discomfort.”

Genji drops his chin to his chest, sighing quietly. He breathes the cool, salted air of the cliffs, finds a modicum of calm in the melody of chiming orbs and the sound of far off gulls.

He could lie to Zenyatta, not well, but well enough. And Zenyatta would take the hint, give him space until he’s ready, if ever, to talk about it.

“How could they not?” Zenyatta continues. Genji tips his head to his master, eyes widening. “Would I not be as well, presented with copies of myself?”

And now that’s a sight to imagine, a few extra Zenyattas trying to save the world one person at a time all while telling bad puns.

“Somehow I have a feeling you could handle that easier than most.”

“Perhaps, but there were many of my model who were programmed to act and speak as I did.” Zenyatta tilts his head, so much like a smile. “So I suppose I have had practice.”

“I’ve never met another like you, master.”

And Genji closes his mouth then, thinking over his words: the truth, swift and unafraid. His lips draw faintly upward. That’s the magic Zenyatta wields: he always makes him feel at ease, wanted. Like nothing he could admit to thinking or feeling would be judged. Never had expression or introspection been so freeing, not since he was a child, those early, half-remembered years beneath his father’s eye. Perhaps being with Zenyatta is what home truly felt like.

“Nor I, you, until now, of course,” Zenyatta chuckles. “It is strange, is it not? I feel as if I know them, but do not know them. Alike, but different. A bit disarming, but one cannot quite draw their attention away, comforting, discomfiting as they are.”

“Not you too,” Genji mumbles, falling back into the sparse grass and hard-packed earth. Meditation is too far from him to even attempt it.

“Forgive me. Knowing that they could all become one of my brightest pupils makes me quite curious.”

“Though it seems one has already achieved that goal.”

“Yes, there is the matter of that particular Genji.”

Genji is careful to watch Zenyatta without tilting his head. He did not have his visor to hide his eyes or his interest.

"He is quite the character...and his Zenyatta does not look as I do."

Genji's mind stops halfway through that thought. His Zenyatta. Yes, of course, the Zenyatta before him is his, not  _ his  _ his, not—he sighs.

"Yet he knew who you were."

"Just as one can identify another from a laugh, a gesture, one's stature, there must be some attributes of his Zenyatta that he sees within me," his master hums. One of his orbs leaves the lazy orbit around his head to hover over Genji's, and he basks in the pleasant warmth it emanates.

"Though his Zenyatta sounds rather cool. A much flashier character that fights side by side with Sentai to protect Hanamura. The Hanamura five, they call us. In his universe, I have a black carbon fiber chassis with green accents," then, with even greater amusement, “we match.”

His heartbeat skips, knowing the feeling but unwilling to even think its name.

"You have spoken with him many times since his arrival."

Zenyatta tips his head back, then that soft, unmoving faceplate turns to him, his array blinking curiously. "I suppose I have. He seems quite interested in learning about me, about the world here. About you, too."

"Me?"

"Indeed. Your age, your training. How long you have been under my tutelage."

Genji bristles despite himself. He didn't want the other Genji to know him like they knew their youngers; did not want to be pitied or the butt of some unknown joke.

"Don't you think it might be dangerous, telling him about us?"

"It had never occurred to me."

"Seriously?"

The wind picks up, sending his orbs spinning, jingling like wind chimes in the breeze.

"Let me phrase it such: would you ever hurt me, Genji?"

And,  _ oh _ , does that sting in a way he can't truly name. He had done his fair share of cruel things to Zenyatta when they had first met. Belittled him, threatened him, anything to keep the omnic from tailing him halfway across the world. But he knows this is not what Zenyatta means, knows that Zenyatta does not even consider those times as slights though he surely should.

"Never," Genji says, and it's easy, true.

Zenyatta nods.

"You will not, and he will not. Our peculiar circumstance does not change this. I can sense his benevolence as I sense your own. Your energies are so close to being in tune, notes in a song that skip one another. As I am drawn to you, I am drawn to him, to them all."

Genji’s frowning before he realizes it. Smooth, cool fingers weave through his hair, the tips rubbing along his scalp.

"I will not ask you to speak with them as I do. We do not know when they might revert to their origins. I simply wish to make the most of their time here and assist however I can."

"I know." Genji relaxes, the warmth of harmony and Zenyatta's hand easing away the knots of doubt twisting away inside of him. "Just be careful."

"Am I not always?"

Said with that subtle cheek, Genji doesn't know whether to sigh or laugh. He settles for the former, enjoying the hand gently working out the tangles from his hair, gently dosing to the familiar song of his master's orbs.

* * *

As with any delicate situation, Zenyatta acts with subtlety. He doesn’t try to hide or lie, and really, why would he? Genji knows regardless, and the last thing he wants is for Zenyatta to conceal anything from him. 

Zenyatta mediates with Sentai. Often out of sight, not long after their own early morning sessions. Never in the same place as Genji, and never at the same time. He doesn’t blame him, Genji had admitted it himself, his wary discomfort. 

And of course, it’s not just Sentai. He deals with Kuro’s withering silence, smoothly deflects the youngest’s come ons, doesn’t annoy at the ease or numerance of his offers. Zenyatta treats them as if they are air, knowing, as Genji knows, how empty the fliration truly is. Genji remembers that playful mask, amusement in two parts. The carnal was pleasant, but the meetings skirted, the clan’s rules ignored time and time again? Better than the latest designer synthetic and twice as addictive.

Zenyatta gives Genji the space he wanted, but it does not alleviate his worry. He does not fear his other selves. No, there is something deeper, something tangled up even as he tries his best to ignore it. Genji sees it in his other selves, the seed of it stoked within them just as it had been with him. 

Worst of all, the one who might’ve seen its fruition or ruin exists right in front of him, surrounding himself with the very one they would all hold irrevocably dear, if fate is cruel, if it is kind.

Does Sentai know what the future would hold for him? Would it be one with his master, side by side? Or would he linger, endless, as quiet and loyal as a shadow, and learn contentment? Be destroyed by it? 

The moment Genji sees them together again, he knows.

Sentai’s actions are not desperate. He does not touch Zenyatta like an unknowable, precious thing. There is no sadness to him, or it is well hidden beneath heroic veneer. It is a gentleness, freely and openly expressed. A hand on Zen’s shoulder, their nearness as they speak quietly to one another, fingers brushing his.

Genji knows and can do nothing.

* * *

"You can just talk to him, you know."

Genji stops drinking mid sip. The liquid along his tongue technically qualifies as coffee, but he's certain he’s the only one who can stomach it. Not even Moira had touched the stuff, and he'd seen that woman consume some heinous things during their Blackwatch days.

Genji stares at his mug; he feels Angela’s eyes boring into him. He sighs, gives up. Her hair is gently disheveled, her glasses resting low on the bridge of her nose, lips gently drawn. It's a look he knows too well. No bullshit, his commander had called it.

"Talk to who?"

"Coyness doesn't suit you." She looks down at her holoscreen, types several lines, the snap of synthetic keys rattling with half-mad precision. "You know I love our talks. You can visit whenever you like...but ideally when you're not wandering the watchpoint like a sad puppy."

"I am not," Genji snaps, very much like a puppy. Then his shoulders sag. He sets his drink aside. "I'm sorry. This is about the only place I can get some privacy." Only Sparrow would be dumb enough to invite himself in, and Angela would not deal with his nonsense after he spent the first few days trying to lure her into his bed.

"It's in his nature. I can't exactly ask him not to hang out with the other...mes."

"Yes, which leads me to wonder why you have that particular problem." She raises one eyebrow, and this time he has to look away.

Angela sighs, gently puts her hand on top of his and squeezes.

"I can't say I don't feel the same. A bit off put by them. Kuro especially. To see you...well, someone like you, like that again." She trails off. "I'm glad you are in a better place now."

Genji stares down at the table. The surface is littered with lab reports and old Overwatch articles, a few polaroids they had unearthed from an old cache that Angela had yet to hang up. There was some part of him that did feel uneasy, a strange, horrifying pull into old hurts and emotions he had long since left behind. The others must've felt it too, on some level, everyone that had known him before skirting around who he was, who he had yet to become.

"I will say, I can't believe what an airhead you were before," Angela laughs gently. "How did you get away with it?"

"I did until I didn't, I suppose."

Her expression draws serious.

"Oh, Genji—"

"Please. I know what you meant." He scrubs a hand down his face, sighing gently into his palm. "It has been a long few weeks."

"Perhaps you should take a cue from Zenyatta. Talk to them. You might learn something."

"Learn something from all my past mistakes?"

"That is usually how it's done." She picks up Genji's abandoned mug and finishes the dregs. "But your younger selves aren’t your only option."

She stares at him over the rim of the mug. "If you can't beat him, join him."

Her smirk is saccharine, impossible to call devious without knowing her nearly as well as he knew her.

"I...I'm not following."

"I'm sure you'll catch on soon." Her holoscreen pings several times, and her eyes snap back to it, narrowing. "Damn. Finish one report and three take its place. We'll catch up later?"

Genji manages a chuckle, standing and replacing his mask in a single motion.

"Goodbye to you, too."

* * *

He doesn’t mean to take Angela’s advice, not really. 

Several teams had been deployed for recon in Grenada, and the watchpoint is eerily quiet. Though Zenyatta is more than capable, especially with Hana and Baptiste, Genji tries not to count the hours until his return. He reaches the door to the training range and steps outside, breath steaming, raising his hand to buffer the brightness of the clear morning sky. With the base so empty, he does not expect to have company.

A vivid green blur darts past him, movements eerily familiar. Genji hesitates too long, and Sentai waves him over with a strange, snappy salute. Genji sighs inwardly.

“It is nice to finally speak with you,” Sentai says when Genji steps within earshot. 

The excuse is on his tongue: why he hadn’t spoken to Sentai before this moment. Sparrow was easy to dismiss; the others didn’t want anything to do with him.

“But that is not why you are here.”

The words are so familiar they shiver along his spine. Would he be like that one day...his master’s cadence precise and heartfelt from his own mouth?

Sentai widens his stance, slowly draws what must be Ryu Ichimonji, the same shape but the color of it matching the nine point grid that flares and flickers in his dreams. Sentai curls his fingers towards Genji, poised to strike.

A move that he had done countless times. A challenge. 

“I do not wish to fight you,” Genji says, mirroring Sentai’s pose, “but if you insist.” 

Real fights are rarely long, exciting spectacles. The first mistake decides it all. Sentai moves like he’s performing. It should mean an easy victory, but he parries each strike with a flashy move, a catch phrase, motions so flamboyant they flare Genji’s anger. 

Sentai feints, flips his wakizashi and slams it into Genji’s stomach, winding him, but stubbornness keep him standing. He wants to win, whatever it will do. Prove to Sentai that he is more than his past, more than a version of him that still has so much to learn, that he still has to gain Zenyatta’s—

Genji thrusts and misses, pitching forward, and Sentai catches his ankle, sending him neatly to the ground. He catches his breath while the tip of Sentai’s teal blade hovers at his throat. Genji glares up at him, expecting some haughty jut of his chin, some cutesy little saying that will make Genji burn.

Instead, Sentai extends a hand.

“You are stronger than I was at your age.”

Genji stares. Sentai wiggles his fingers. “C’mon. I have nearly a decade on you.”

Sentai helps him to his feet.

“Don’t tell me I’ll be acting like a saturday morning hero in my forties.”

“Ha ha,” Sentai says without humor.

They both take a seat on the supply crates next to the training grounds. Genji’s staring at the sky when he hears a telltale hiss: Sentai breathing in the cool air unfettered by his helmet.

“My timeline is very different from your own. There is no Overwatch, but somehow, many of our friends have found each other nonetheless...Zenyatta among them.”

“What is he like?” Genji says, to keep him asking about the thing he truly wants to hear.

Sentai’s smile tells him everything.

“Though your Zenyatta reminds me so much of him, he is not my Zenyatta.” 

“That hasn’t stopped you from being all over him,” Genji says, quick and embarrassing.

Sentai stares for a moment, then he laughs. Genji’s shoulders hike towards his ears.

“I don’t see what’s so funny. Just back off, okay?”

Sentai’s grin is wide, voice positively gleeful.

“I won’t be here forever. I was just passing the time...telling Zenyatta about his other self, about our relationship.”

Genji’s face slackens.

“Planting the seed, if you will.”

“You don’t need to do that. He doesn’t need to know—”

“Listen, Genji,” Sentai says, and winces. “Man, that’s weird. Don’t overthink this. Zenyatta will be back soon, and I’m setting something up for you. Call it a token of good will.”

“How can I trust you?”

Another round of laughter. He slaps Genji’s shoulders a bit too hard, and Genji angles away from him, scowling.

“I  _ am  _ you, idiot. I want you to be happy. Just like I want the others to be.”

Sentai slides his helmet back in place, stretches and sighs while Genji glowers at him.

“It will only be a few days longer. That’s when my gift will be ready.”

* * *

They usually celebrate after successful missions. No damages, no casualties, all according to Ana’s experienced coordination. Reinhardt breaks out the beer, Lucio the music, old techno, a compromise after their arguments had begun to grate on everyone’s nerves.

Nearly everyone is here, including the other Genji. Kuro and Nomad keep off to the side, nursing drinks in silence. Sparrow is mixing something at the makeshift bar that looks like it could kill a large mammal. Genji ignores them; he’s freshly showered and feeling more relaxed than he had in a while. Exercise had that benefit, at least. Fatigue took the edge off, and he planned to do a little more of that. He quickly snags a drink from Lena, and they settle into one of the common room couches. 

“Hey, big bro,” Sparrow says, then immediately hops over to the other seat, sitting too close to Mei, who’s already flushed and drowsy.

“Don’t you ever get tired?” Genji says. 

“I don’t know, you tell me.” 

Sojourn rolls her eyes. “Thought we were done with this in middle school.”

“Jealous?” Sparrow scans her from head to foot. “I have endurance for two if you’re interested.”

“You really were something, Genji.” 

Genji sighs into his drink. “Technically, I was never him.”

Sparrow looks between them all, pouting.

“You’re as lame as the other mes. I can’t believe I become such a bore.” He downs his drink in three impressive gulps then stands immediately.

“Find me later, babe.” He winks at Mei before he heads towards the kitchen. 

“That would be very strange,” Mei murmurs quietly, covering her face with her hands. “Really strange!” 

“Just ignore him.”.

“Hey, lighten up,” Lena says, nudging Genji’s shoulder. “We’ve got partyin’ to do right?”

“Right.”

He takes a healthy swig of his beer while Sentai’s words echo in his mind. Would tonight be the night?

“Have you seen Zenyatta?” Genji asks as casually as he can.

“Sorry, haven’t seen him. But I bet he’ll turn up soon, yeah?”

* * *

Genji’s at the point between buzzed and drunk when he feels the couch sink next to him.

“We’re ready. I hope you haven’t been hitting the booze too hard.”

He looks at Sentai sidelong, noting his casual attire: white v-neck and loose, high-waisted sweats, his maskless face, calm but watchful. Without the uniform, it’s more difficult to tell the difference between them. Genji’s stomach twists uncertainly, but Sentai smiles, knife-sharp but genial.

The walk across the room is a strange one; the music hypnotic and slow, the few stragglers talking quietly amongst themselves. The music too, gently distorted, but not unpleasant, like an old record, soft voices and a mellow beat.

Down the long hallways, most rooms defunct, wondering why he allowed Sentai to lead him away, why Sentai walks so close to him. A gift. The absence of Zenyatta at the party. Faint, needling anticipation. Why?

They stop in front of Zenyatta’s room.

“You’re really going to like this.”

* * *

The party’s music filters through the walls, muffled and distant. The room is dim, diffused in blue, the telltale lights of its occupants vibrant in the dark. 

Genji blinks. Blinks again.

“Told you,” Sentai says from behind him, too close.

They’re all here. Nomad, Kuro, Sparrow. The latter’s eyes must be as wide as his own, pupils large, face flushed, looking as if he might jump from foot to foot. Nomad lingers close to the bed, ignoring them as the door slips shut at Genji’s back.

Kuro’s eyes are two blinding red pinpoints next to Zenyatta’s array. Half hidden behind Zenyatta on the mattress, his fingers hungrily trace the support struts of his waist, mapping lines along gleaming metal.

“Genji,” Zenyatta murmurs, low and strange, each self reacting in turn, but he’s staring straight ahead. Words for him. Beckoning. 

Genji can’t speak. Can’t think. Focus trapped on Kuro’s fingers curling around Zenyatta’s segmented cock, his master’s strangled gasp. He didn’t even know Zenyatta had upgrades. Wondered, fantasized, but seeing it, watching a version of himself touch Zenyatta with his ancient, burning glare: a challenge, a threat, an invitation.

Stop. Don’t look. Leave. Fight. The tight channel of Kuro’s fist drags from the base of Zenyatta’s cock to its tip, a pearl of teal dripping to the mattress, the twitch and jump of Zenyatta’s pistons and struts as he forces his hips still. Kuro’s scarred lips parting, incisors long, dragging against the black inner synthetics of Zenyatta’s throat.

“Holy shit,” whispers Sparrow loudly.

Genji agrees.

Pressure at his lower back, Sentai’s hand urging him forward.

“It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, don’t you agree?” Whispered against his ear.

“ _ Finally _ . And here I thought you’d guys were impotent or something.” Sparrow brushes by Nomad and climbs onto the bed, tugging his shirt off in two quick pulls.

“Knew you’d be into this,” Sparrow says against Zenyatta’s faceplate, words fogging his chrome. “Religious ones are the nastiest.”

“Put your mouth to better use,” Kuro growls.

Nomad grabs the back of his neck, urging the youngest down Zenyatta’s body.

Too similar, those two. All of them are. Sentai moves around Genji with a single backwards smirk. Genji swallows against the tightness in his throat, mirrors Sentai’s path past discarded visors and protective armor mesh.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Sentai murmurs. 

He kisses Zenyatta’s array, and it flares beneath his lips. A stab, like lightning. Without thought, Genji closes the distance, kneeling opposite of Nomad. He’s the only one fully armored and clothed, the LED of his visor ghostly in its stillness.

Genji still can’t believe what he’s seeing. What Zenyatta is letting them do, what Zenyatta’s letting  _ him  _ do. His master stifling his whimpers while Genji looms close, fingers splayed but not quite touching. Staring down Zenyatta’s body at a man with his face, a double who draws the tip of his master’s cock in his mouth, moaning, eyes half mast and glazed. Drunk, most likely. He had always liked that when he was young.

“Is this really okay?” 

Laughter from his side. Sentai close again, words along his cheek. 

“How do you think we got here? Do you think I bullied our master?” 

Genji’s frown tightens, unwilling to draw away, to let Sentai shake him.

“Go on. Tell him, Zen.”

Ministrations slow, all eyes turn to Zenyatta. He’s never seen Zenyatta’s array flare so brightly, not outside of battle. 

“I…” His synth stutters. “I asked for this.”

“Hah! Told you,” quips Sparrow.

“Shut up,” Genji and Kuro say in unison. 

“See?” Sentai says quietly. His gaze flickers to Genji’s lips. “He wants this. Wants us…”

The kiss is unexpected, scarred in the same places, motions mirrored, a twist, a tilt of the head, a lash of tongue. Genji gasps, but Sentai steadies him, hand beneath his chin, eyes not quite closed. Zenyatta is watching, and Sentai knows how he, how they like to be kissed; the blooming heat that Genji had been trying desperately to ignore surges. A gentler, smoother hand slides along his nape, drawing him forward.

His array is dazzling so close. Genji makes a strange sound deep in his throat. Lips against Zenyatta’s, hand pressing down Genji’s stomach, settling on his pelvis.

“There will be no ill will, regardless of what you choose to do.”

“Think of yourself for once, master.” Genji murmurs against his lips.

Zenyatta hums. His fingers twitch against Genji’s nape. “I believe this whole affair is quite indulgent.”

His voicebox glitches, a moan heating the tips of genji’s ears.

“C’mon,” Sparrow says sloppily against Zenyatta’s cock. “Enough talking.” 

The youngest settles on his stomach, head tilted back. He presents his tongue, laves the tip of Zenyatta’s cock as Kuro begins to stroke his cock again, slow and firm. 

“Let me take care of you,” Zenyatta says.

Words like a dream, secret, unspeakable want becoming impossible reality. Sentai huffs his approval as Genji reaches down, unlatches his own panel, motions clumsy and eager. His half-hard cock slides into Zenyatta’s hand, his groan startling as warm, metal fingers curl around him. He had imagined, but never like this. On display, aching with the lightest touch. Wordlessly, Nomad follows suit, takes his own cock in hand before Zenyatta replaces it with his own. 

Genji doesn’t know how to move, doesn’t even know where to look. His face and ears are hot to the touch, body alight with nervous energy, whatever brain power he can muster spent trying not to hump into Zenyatta’s hand like a teenager. All the while stomaching the fear that this is somehow a dream, that he’s dead drunk, that Zenyatta will turn him away, be disgusted when he has only ever offered kindness and openness. 

But Zenyatta only whimpers gently, snatching Genji’s attention. 

His master’s hand, firm and sure, loses rhythm before tightening again. Sparrow giggles, sucking down more of Zenyatta’s cock, ignoring Kuro’s growl as he takes him halfway, blocking his motions with his mouth. With a click of teeth, Kuro relinquishes his hold, and Sparrow swallows Zenyatta down in a single, liquid glide, lips fastening to his chassis. The youngest gazes up at Zenyatta like he’s giving a show, and Genji supposes he is, supposes he would’ve done that at his age too, supposes he could do it  _ now _ . But Sparrow doesn’t know Zenyatta like he does; this is different for him, different for them all. Could he ever look up so unabashed while swallowing Zenyatta’s cock? He presses his hand to his face, grunting weakly into his palm, watching through parted fingers.

Kuro has busied himself in other ways, a possessive arm snaking around Zenyatta’s waist pulling him flush to his front. Zenyatta keens, slick, wet smacks joining the snap- release of steam vents.

“Does it feel good, Zen? Having his fingers inside you?” Sentai says, watching like a hawk, not touching Zenyatta, not even touching himself. “I know you do. You imagined him well before you should have. Filthy monk.”

Genji’s anger flares—how dare he—but Zenyatta’s synth glitches, unable to muffle himself when his hands are busy, when Sentai starts to trace beneath the gold chrome hexagon of Zenyatta’s core.

“Do you want more?” His tone arrests like a sound rumbling beneath the earth. “You have to ask nicely.” Sentai’s hand twists, and he draws out a red wire, looping it delicately around his finger. Then he tugs. 

Zenyatta’s whole body jerks. Sparrow chokes, growls, moves his mouth more quickly, drool and slick coating his lips and chin. Thin gossamer teal drips to the bed from between Zenyatta’s thighs, clings to Kuro’s pistoning fingers.

“Y-yes. Please. I...I want it.” Zenyatta’s synth hiccups. “I..I’m going to…” 

His frame trembles, clenching tight for a single, tumultuous moment, but Kuro pulls back just as Sparrow draws away with a wet pop. Zenyatta’s cock bobs in the air, shining with drool, aching, dripping, unspent. His master thrashes in Kuro’s grip, earns a throaty chuckle and a tighter, unshakeable hold.

“You heard him,” Sentai says.

Kuro slides inside with a single rough push, catches Zenyatta’s yell in his fist as he clenches his hand around his throat, muffling his synth. The pace quickens, an immediacy to it, self-servicing and cruel. Nomad’s movements are little better; he grabs Zenyatta’s loose fist, moves his master’s hand with his own, as if Zenyatta is little more than a toy, visor light boring into the omnic. Sparrow grabs Zenyatta’s cock at least, works it playfully at its tip, opening his mouth wide when Zenyatta’s synth shorts out, when his body draws tight and long and beautiful, head rocking back against Kuro’s shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s it, master. Your students are giving it to you so good, nasty old bot—” Sparrow’s words, slurred and sloppy.

Don’t say that you idiot, Genji wants to say. Only he can’t, his cock jumping against Zenyatta’s hot palm as his grip tightens, strokes loose and off kilter but it’s almost more than Genji can take. 

Trapped in Kuro’s grip, Zenyatta shakes apart: his array flares, flickers, teal into gold, seizing, then his hips pump, once, twice. Sparrow catches the first hot spurt of teal on his tongue before surging forward, sealing tight and unyielding against Zenyatta’s chassis, swallowing around him as the harsh, slapping thrusts intensify. He’s never heard Zenyatta make noises like this before, not even hacked or hurt or maintenanced, hot little pings and chirps, his body twisting fruitlessly in Kuro’s hold. The pace draws quick and sloppy, a means to an end, though the burn of crimson biolights never leave Zenyatta’s body even as Kuro mouths at his throat, stilling, burying deep and pumping him full.

Sparrow pulls back, milking the last of Zenyatta’s reserves onto his panting mouth, eyes slipping shut, red-faced and ecstatic. He snakes his hand into his own pants as he rolls to his side.

“I’m next!” 

“No.” It’s low, nearly inaudible. 

Everyone looks at Nomad. 

Nomad doesn’t move. 

“It’s my turn.”

“Whatever,” Sparrow grumbles. “I’m flexible.” 

Nomad shifts around, but Kuro still hasn’t pulled out. They stare at each other, blue challenging red. 

“P...lease…” Zenyatta manages, grinding back onto Kuro’s cock with a weak, shaky press. 

The tension snaps. Nomad takes his turn.

Sparrow yelps, narrowly avoiding being pinned as Nomad shoves Zenyatta forward. The omnic lands gracelessly on his face and knees, hips high, presented, frame shuddering. Nomad grabs his master’s wrists, overlaps them at the base of his spinal wires.

“Hold still.”

The wet, sloppy sound of Zenyatta being filled pierces through the silence. He takes Zenyatta’s wrists in one hand, uses them to tug him back onto his cock. Zenyatta’s synth bugs on his name, devolves into wordless, punctuated gasps, each brutal slam of hips flaring the lights of his array. Zenyatta’s cock hangs between his thighs, dripping and tumescent. Steam clouds metal chassis and exposed prosthetics, sweat catching on brow and face, hydraulic release overlaying breathy, eager chirps.

“Sounds pretty nice for an omnic,” Sparrow murmurs, licking his lips. 

He slips the edge of his pants down, kneels at the end of the bed in front of Zenyatta, working his cock in languid, barely there twists of his fingers. He’s close, staving it off but failing. He taps his cock to the smooth curve of Zenyatta’s faceplate, held aloft by Nomad’s grip as he fucks him.

Genji squeezes the base of his own cock tight, bites off a pained moan. Kuro lingers at the edge of the bed, still half-hard. Guess they both liked second rounds. Liked watching.

A flash in the dark: golden arms bloom from Zenyatta’s back, spectral hands reaching towards the men bracketing him. Ghostly fingers at their hips, brushing their thighs, a fine tremble blurring their edges.

“Not enough for you?” Nomad growls, loud even beneath his mask. 

The pace picks up, violent and loud. Zenyatta emits a long, wavering whine. His transcendent limbs flicker before they fade completely. 

“God, yeah, he’s really pounding him,” Sparrow’s murmurs hoarsely. 

His touch is featherlight, but there’s sweat along his lip, a tight, eager twitch to his muscles, flushed all the way to his ears.

“Ah, fuck, no—dammit—” 

He swears, then whimpers, spilling over his hand, another pulse catching the left most row of Zenyatta’s array. Sparrow curls over himself, his hand pawing and jerking, lower lip caught between his teeth. When he catches his breath, finally opens his eyes, he laughs breathlessly.

“Damn, t-that’s a lot. Heh, dry spell.” 

Sparrow smears the white mess over Zenyatta’s faceplate, array flaring hot under his fingers. Genji watches, mouth dry, hating him, wanting, lost. No complaint, only a low, shaky groan, awed and breathless. Zenyatta’s enjoyment sets Genji’s teeth on edge, his hand tighter on his cock, heat and want twisting dangerously inside him.

Nomad grunts, shoves Zenyatta’s head into the matress then, shifting harder, faster than before, a muffled grunt each time he shoves to the hilt. The thrusts are deep, barely withdrawing an inch, overwhelming, stifling. The bed creaks beneath the pressure. Zenyatta’s array flickers again, and he whirs something that almost sounds like their name. 

“Really feeling it, huh, Zen?” Sentai purrs. “That’s it, let it out.”

Nomad grabs Zenyatta’s hips, delicate struts that fit his hands perfectly, thighs flush to Zenyatta’s as he climbs onto him, pinning with his full weight, no room to squirm or struggle. Zenyatta doesn’t do either; instead, he slides a single, quaking hand over the sheets towards Genji. He turns his head to him, array bright, voice wavering, his name a clear whisper. Their fingers intertwine, and suddenly Genji’s so close, watching each twitch and throb as Zenyatta overloads, ghostly shocks of transcendence like a half-forgotten song, warm and fond. 

Nomad doesn’t linger like Kuro, lets Zenyatta crumple like a puppet against the sheets. He jerks his cock a few times, spills over the omnic’s back with a throaty moan, red spinal wires and delicate circuitry coated in white. 

“Damn,” Sparrow breathes, sounding raw and more than interested. 

Genji doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t look at Kuro or Sentai or Nomad. He gently eases Zenyatta onto his back, relaces their fingers.

“Are you okay? Do you still…” want to keep going? Want me?

Zenyatta’s array stabilizes, dim but present. He squeezes Genji’s hand, lets his slim thighs part, heated metal and silicone in mesmerizing patchwork. He had never seen Zenyatta naked, never had time to study this like he had the rest of his body, his delicate neck, his clever, long-fingered hands, the delicate thatch of wires that drifted behind him when he walked. 

Zenyatta draws shaking fingers between his legs, smears the heated, dripping mess.

“Please,” Zenyatta pleads, quiet, laced with stubborn warmth.

Genji’s lost even before he lines himself up, cock angrily red and straining, and Zenyatta hums like he knows it. And fuck, maybe he does, knows exactly what makes Genji helpless. He’ll interrogate Sentai later. 

Now, he aligns his cock, drags it through smearing teal and white, swearing quietly as it presses to the swollen space beneath Zenyatta’s. The first push is loose and easy, then Zenyatta recalibrates, cinching like a glove, clutching and throbbing around him. 

“Not fair,” Genji groans, hips stumbling, gritting his teeth. Zenyatta squeezes his hand.

“Truly. The odds were stacked against you.”

He attempts to steal that cheek with a hand around Zenyatta’s cock, tugging him in time to his thrusts. Perhaps Sparrow watches them a little too eagerly, a frown finally stealing over his easy grin. Nomad and Kuro too, like statues, unwilling, unable, to look away. Everything is secondary to Zenyatta’s array locked on his face, to the hot ripple of his body around his, with Zenyatta shifting to meet his thrusts, with their hands clasped like they wouldn’t let go.

Zenyatta’s overload shorts out his array, the liquid bubbling over Genji’s fingers little more than a trickle, reserves exhausted.

“Zen—”

His fingers twitch around his. Zenyatta onlines to their lips pressed together, bodies flush, Genji rocking slow and gentle through breathless orgasm. Fingers at his hairline, weak and featherlight. He lets the touch lead him regardless, kissing Zenyatta once more, faceplate slippery with heat and steam. Still connected hip to hip, pleasant, shivery aftershocks coursing up his spine.

“Do you think you could do another?”

A single, small roll, Genji fighting the too tender soonness, but he wants Zenyatta more than he wants to stop. Wants to claim him twice, thrice. Wants to make up for lost time, of all the times he could’ve had this. Of all the times he had let fear stop him.

Time passes, liminal and unimportant. When Zenyatta loses himself again it takes nearly a minute for him to online again, overload little more than a twitch of his cock, whole chassis quaking until he went dark. Genji pulls out, watching the mess that follows, wincing against another wave of weary hunger. He traces his hands down Zenyatta’s faceplate, his neck cables, his golden core, condensation bracketing his fingers. He takes Zenyatta in as thoroughly as the first time he had truly wanted to see him. 

It’s only when Genji gets up, body tired and loose, that he realizes they are alone. Had the others left after the first round, the second? Another awkward talk, but he’ll worry about that later. He retrieves a damp cloth from the room adjacent, cleans Zenyatta as gently and as thoroughly as he can until the omnic draws Genji down next to him, array dim but online. 

Genji falls asleep to the minute, steadily wavering glow of his array, to the hands holding him close, to the sounds of Zenyatta’s modulated breathing just beneath the hum of his systems.

Whatever happens, Genji thinks, they would be okay.

* * *

It’s a dream come true when Genji bursts through the door. Zenyatta is on his feet in an instant, meeting Genji halfway between the bed and the entrance of their shared quarters. Hands around him, helmet clattering to the floor, metal palms on scarred cheeks, fingers carding mussed hair. Soft lips against his own, sloped faceplate. 

“I knew you were alive. I could feel you,” Zenyatta says into Genji’s chest. The arms around him tighten.

“I am sorry that I worried you. I got pulled into—”

“Another timeline. Winston told us.” Zenyatta tilts his head, looks up at him. “I cannot wait to hear the story.”

“ _ Can _ it wait?” Genji says in a tone Zenyatta knows well, low and familiar. “I met you there. You...and a few other mes. I sorta...helped them out.” 

Zenyatta yelps when Genji lifts him into his arms, carrying him towards the bed.

“Oh?” 

There is no modulated array to express his humor, his dark curiosity, but Genji never needed those things, not when he could read Zenyatta by the poise of his body, the timber of his voice, the clutch of Zenyatta’s hands as he lowers him to the mattress.

“Show me.” Zenyatta says, and Genji needs no more encouragement.


End file.
